Adjectives
by Terra E. Veice
Summary: (Chapter Two UP!)Adjectives, adjectives. What's the significance of adjectives? And what exactly is Neville Longbottom's fascination with Pansy Parkinson?
1. prologue

**Standard Disclaimer** :_This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

A/N: This story was originally posted on FictionAlley.org.

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**::prologue::**

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Boyish. Sweet. Nice. Friendly. Those words are all that I am. All that I have been. All that anybody sees of me. Probably, all that I will ever be. And it is most certainly all that anyone expects of me.

But I'm sick of doing what people expect.

I want the spotlight too. I want the fame, the adoring looks, the pretty girls, the fast brooms, and the biting retorts of sarcasm. I want it all, I want everything. I want to belong. I want to be smiled at and feel loved and popular. And I just want to be alone. I want to just start running and never, ever look back at anything. I want to escape those words, _Boyish, Sweet, Nice, Friendly_, because they've trapped me and defined me for so long that I don't know where the adjectives stop and I start.

I want to- no, I **need** to be me. I need to know who I am so desperately, sometimes I think I'll drown in all the longing. Of course, I don't, because it's not what's expected of me.

I'm to graduate with modest grades and train to be the next Herbology teacher. I'm to marry a nice witch from a wizarding family of good standing. I'm to take care of Gran and visit Uncle Boris with his cataracts every summer. I'm to be last place and stumble on my own feet and stare about helplessly. I'm to be sane and brave and weak and stupid all at once. I'm to go through life blandly, looking forward to nothing, looking back at everything with a sigh. I'm to never get a girl and never to go out and party and act crazy. I'm to be weighed down by reality and endure the blandness. I'm to be unsure and stepped on and I have to act sweet about it. I'm to keep my mouth shut and stand stoically as my mother hands me yet another gum wrapper. And I'm to go home, run up to my room and cry because of the overwhelming sadness that I feel.

It's what's expected of me.

Oh Merlin...Oh anybody...Some days, I feel so insignificant standing next to Harry, the savior of the world. To Ron, the joker. To Hermione, the genius. Not that I really stand next to them since they look past me like a piece of furniture. Some days I want to scream at them all, the entire House, the entire school and tell them to look at me for who I am. To look at me and see that I'm not really the bumbling loser that they all perceive me to be. To look at me and realize...I've changed.

But those four words define me still, and no one, not Gran can look past those hateful, cruel adjectives. Because to them, that's all I am.

I need to get out of here. I need to run away. I need to stop this charade of being the _Boyish, Sweet, Nice, Friendly_, Neville Longbottom. Dumb Neville Longbottom! Retarded Neville Longbottom! Pathetic Neville Longbottom! Neville...who? Who am I? I don't even know. What am I? Nobody knows! Where can I draw the line between perception and reality?

Where do the adjectives stop? I need to know so I can pack up who I really am and leave it all behind.

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	2. La Pansée

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Standard Disclaimer :This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

_A/N: This story was originally posted on _

_Thanks to those who reviewed and even more thanks to my superbeta, Jazzy Jello. _

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chapter one: La Pansée**

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Pansy.  
  
Is there a single girl more beautiful than she is? Her eyes and her hair and her lips... and overall, there's something deliciously unique about her. A sort of seductive quality all the other girls at school lack. Not tacky-attractive the way Ginny Weasley rolls up her skirts and walks around the common room in tight, muggle style tops. Not artificial-attractive the way Parvati and Lavender wake up at five to slather on today's face. Not lolita-attractive the way Georgina Laurent flutters her short eyelashes and braids her hair with ribbons.   
  
No. La Pensée is much more than any of those girls. She's got a natural allure, entirely hers, that other girls can't possibly hope to compete with.   
  
This is Pansy Parkinson I'm talking about, of course. The girl who is first and foremost, Draco's Pet. Adjective- Slytherin. Adjective- Cruel. Adjective- Oblivious. Adjective- Never-Going-To-Happen.   
  
But none of that can stop me from staring at her out of the corners of my eyes while she shops at Hogsmeade's Gladrags. Pansy holds up an elaborate creation made out of blue silk, green chiffon, and peacock feathers. She twirls in front of a mirror.   
  
Adjective, Stunning.   
  
When I was younger, when Gran still loved haute couture and all things luxury, I met a girl about my age in Milan who had the same dark curls as Pansy sports now. Gran sat next to the child and her father through a showcase on new American designs for the House of Jovanni. I was only seven then, but I remember being struck by the way she carried herself, like a miniature fashion model. The little girl was stunning the way only Stunning can be. I raptly stared at her all through those two tedious hours, fascinated with the way she turned up her little nose at all of the edgiest American pieces, fashions so hot they practically came steaming.   
  
"These Americans have no sense of elegance," the little girl declared aloud in a lilting French.   
  
My Gran looked at the girl and chuckled. She turned to the father and said jestingly, "Your daughter has quite the eye."   
  
He grimaced in reply. "An expensive eye, Madame. She needs to find a rich husband soon or she will ruin our household with it."   
  
Gran smiled, "A lady can never have too fine of an eye. Monsieur, it's her eye for quality that sets her apart from the common girls."   
  
The girl, who had been casually listening to the two adults, noticed me staring and began stare back. Her eyes were Stunning, and it was a little startling the way she kept them wide open, absorbing every detail of my face. I felt my skin prickle and my throat froze. "Bonjour," she said to me. I nodded quickly, maybe too quickly, and definitely too awkwardly. The child frowned her dark eyebrows and turned back to the models parading down in ludicrously elaborate costumes.   
  
I continued to stare at her.   
  
Suddenly, she turned to me and said briskly, "Doesn't this entire show seem more pret a porter than haute couture?" Before I had a chance to comprehend what she had asked, Gran cut in.   
  
"He's English. He doesn't understand French, dear."   
  
Gran had no idea then that I understood every word.  
  
"Oh. So he doesn't know French?"   
  
Gran shook her head no, eyes still focused on the runway where a half naked woman tripped along on cream sling backs and a tulle skirt.   
  
The child leaned out of her chair and smiled at me. "My father is from Surrey," she said in halting English. Then she settled back into the seat, looking half disappointed, half smug.   
  
Somewhere in the real world, Pansy tosses aside the peacock dress and reaches for a pink, polished cotton suit.   
  
I'm pretty sure that the only reason I'm obsessed with La Pansee is because she looks like what that little girl from Milan would look like grown up. Late nights, after I'm done practically rubbing myself raw with thoughts of a warm and pliant Mademoiselle Pansée all over my trembling body and spilling onto my nervous hands, I lie in my bed, thinking and trying to make as little noise as possible. And I sigh. And I remember that little girl grabbing my hand for a split second before her father guided her out of the showroom with a hand on her back. And I start crying.   
  
New adjective- Pathetic.   
  
New adjective- Insane.   
  
Old question, Why?   
  
Somewhere in the real world, Pansy asks the ignorant Gladrags sales girl if the pink suit is silk. The girl answers an uncertain yes. Which is wrong, I want to tell them. It's only polished cotton. Even someone as coarse and uncultured as Ron Weasley could tell the difference. The suit was most likely a Vera Wang sham, a copy from one of her muggle lines.   
  
Old adjective, Silent.   
  
"Neville, I'm finished. Are you ready to go?" Gran asks, sweeping out of one of Gladrag's back rooms where she had been measured and fitted.   
  
"Yes, Gran."   
  
Dutifully, I slide my copy of Slaughterhouse Five into my messenger bag and shrug into my beat up leather jacket. My fashion house? Muggle thrift store.   
  
As we walk out of the double glass doors, Gran smoothes her peony-pink robes. They are lamé with silk organza trim. And under that, crepe chiffon. The ribbon details are in duchesse satin. Fashion house: Kenneth Troll.   
  
This kind of useless knowledge I can pick up so easily even though I don't want to. Too bad it's not the same with schoolwork, I think as we pass Flourish and Blotts.   
  
"We have company tonight, Neville," Gran tells me.   
  
"Yes, Gran. I remember. You told me last night."   
  
"Of course I did. I just wanted to make sure you remembered."   
  
"I do, Gran."   
  
We walk to the train depot without another word to one another.

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Sometimes I wonder if I should try to be a better grandson. I'm all Gran has now, even if she never wanted me in the first place. Just in these past two years she's paid me actual attention and even affection. I'd like to think that she's finally gotten to really care about me, but in truth, she cares because she's got nothing else to care about.   
  
New adjective- cynical.   
  
We sit on gilded chairs in front of an antique French provincial table and eat off of silver plates as heavy as corpses. The spoons are either too big or too small and we struggle invisibly to keep the disgustingly perfect tapenade verde off of our expensive clothes, tailored to accentuate a form that we can't possibly ever hope to possess. The wine, something unrealistically sweet to be a true Marestel, swills around in everyone's mouths. No one wants to talk during dining.   
  
"Remember, we have company, Neville," Gran says to me.   
  
"I remember, Gran. I remember."   
  
What I remember is the way mom used to try on new perfumes. She'd spray a little on her arm and rub it onto her wrists. Then she'd bring the wrist up to her nose. "Overly sweet," she'd say to her reflection, "Unrealistically sweet to be considered a serious scent."   
  
"-So I hear that Neville is quite the academic in his Herbology classes..." One of our guests for the evening strikes up in a lame imitation of conversation. Poor man. I can only guess at why he and his suffering family are at the house, bestowing charities of attention on my Gran.   
  
"He's one of the most talented students in that class, yes." Gran smiles, eager for any communication.   
  
Adjective- Desperate.   
  
And all I can think of is the way my mother used to say, "Unrealistic. This world is based on being unrealistic."   
  
I close my eyes and tilt back in my chair, even though I know Gran will give me hell about being rude in front of company once they're gone. Just try to think about how many days until Hogwarts. Just try to think about how many days until Hogwarts. Just try to think about how many days until Hogwarts.   
  
_Eight.   
  
Seven.   
  
Six.   
  
Five.   
  
Four.   
  
Three.   
  
Two.   
  
One._   
  
And I'll be able to see Pansy again. 

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**Credits:** Kenneth Troll is a "fashion house" mentioned in Cassandra Claire's DT.   
Slaughterhouse Five is a book written by Kurt Vonnegut.  
Vera Wang is a professional fashion designer, formerly of Ralph Lauren, now independent.

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